


I Will Go Dowse In This Shit

by orphan_account



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Sexual Situations, Blow Jobs, Developing Relationship, Dysfunctional Family, Folk Music, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Says "Hmm", Immigration & Emigration, Injury Recovery, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier Cries A Lot, Jaskier Swears A Lot, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Has PTSD, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mommy Issues, Non-Penetrative Sex, Past Promiscuity, Pre-Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-22 20:36:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 17,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23100049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After a nearly fatal incident, folk musician Julian "Jaskier" Pankratz hires former SIS assassin Geralt Rivers to be his personal bodyguard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 168





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> OK, so I'm all in with the Witcher fandom and all aboard with the Bitcher/Geraskier/however-you-wanna-say-it ship. The title of this, whatever this turns out to be, is inspired by two things:  
>   
> (1) The fact that a "witcher" in English historically referred to people who went dowsing for water, and  
> (2) the line "I will go down with this ship," which I guess comes from Dido's song "White Flag" but which I've heard used repeatedly over the years to refer to fans' OTP.
> 
> I mean no disrespect towards Poland or the Polish people, at all. I know very little about Polish culture or customs, besides what I read in books.
> 
> For that matter, I know little more than that about British culture or customs, besides what I read or see on TV. If you notice anything especially ignorant or offensive, please don't hesitate to let me know.
> 
>  _" **Dowsing** is a type of divination employed in attempts to locate ground water, buried metals or ores, gemstones, oil, gravesites, and many other objects and materials without the use of a scientific apparatus."_ \- Wikipedia
> 
>  **Dowse** , verb: _"To plunge, or duck into water; to immerse; to dowse."_ \- Wiktionary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit gets real for poor Jaskier.

He first noticed he was being followed after the concert in Poznań. Looking up from his mobile, Jaskier rubbed his eyes blearily and focused on the bright headlights shining in the rear-view mirror. 

He lowered his gaze slightly to lessen the glare and watched as the car pursued them. It lingered a few car lengths behind, but mimicked the cab’s every move.

“Hey, driver!" he said, his voice slurring sluggishly. “We’re being tailed, man.” When the driver didn’t respond, he belched and repeated himself slowly, stressing the word “tailed.”

When the man still didn’t answer, Jaskier huffed and slumped back into the seat. “How do you like that? The man can’t even speak English. All of the civilized world speaks English. Fucking Polack.” 

He sighed and burped again. The fact that he himself was a ‘fucking Polack,’ at least ethnically speaking, was not lost on him.

He grabbed his mobile and unlocked the screen. He opened his contacts’ list and tapped the name of his latest agent. 

He didn’t know the phone number off the top of his head, but since the average duration of his agents was three months, he didn’t bother.

The call went straight to voicemail.

“Jim!” Jaskier seethed, his voice so shrill the cab driver winced, “I’ve a bone to pick with you! Ring me the minute you get this, you miserable fat cunt!”

He threw the phone to the floorboard and stepped on it, smashing the screen. “Well shit, looks like I won’t be hearing from him on that line.” Jaskier laughed and threw his hands up as if in surrender. _Fine, I admit it. Maybe_ I’m _the cunt in this scenario…_

The concert had begun on the front lawn of the Imperial Castle. By the end, Jaskier had led the small group of attendees into the Castle and wound up sitting on the throne once occupied by Wilhelm II.

He hadn’t wanted to do it in the first place. From the moment his family had migrated to England in his early childhood, he'd vowed he would never go back. 

And yet here he was, the country of his birth, a backward country still held captive by stupidity and superstition in the 21st century. 

It was what had led to his family leaving Poland altogether.

As the illegitimate son of an 18-year-old novitiate, Julian “Jaskier” Alfred Pankratz was said by some to be the son of the local priest, and by others to be the son of the devil himself. With his jet black hair and bright blue eyes, baby Julian looked nothing like the local priest, nor his mother. 

When Julia Pankratz refused to reveal the identity of his father, after years of speculation she took her son and used all the money she had to buy the ticket to emigrate.

Having only come to Poland to indulge a stupid, sentimental whim, Jaskier found himself wanting nothing more than to go back to England, post haste.

That was his last thought before the crash.


	2. Dirty Laundry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt gets a job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Kick 'em when they're up  
>  Kick 'em when they're down,  
> Kick 'em when they're stiff  
> Kick 'em all around..._  
>   
> \- Lisa Marie Presley, Don Henley

Geralt woke with a start to the sound of the newspaper thwacking the front door. He stood up swiftly and groaned in pain at the stiffness in his muscles. He'd fallen asleep on the couch again.

He yawned and stretched his arms over his head before walking across the room to the door. Though it was nearly spring, Geralt shivered and huddled against the breeze. The thick terry cloth bathrobe cushioned him from the worst of the chill.

He picked up the bound paper and slipped off the rubber band, tossing it carelessly to the floor as he shut the door. The front page headline screamed at him so loudly that he felt the pangs of a beginning headache:

_**CRASH AND BURN! HAS JASKIER FINALLY LEARNT HIS LESSON?!** _

Geralt pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table. He read with mild interest about the latest exploits of said Jaskier, a moderately famous folk singer from Newcastle who was more well known for his drunken antics and his unfortunate tendency to seduce and abandon married women than his musical abilities. He had left a trail of broken hearts and cuckolds throughout the whole of Britain.

Somehow, the little rake had been able to get through life thus far without facing any consequences, until the previous evening. In spite of himself, Geralt smiled in grim satisfaction when he read about the hookup Jaskier had with a Polish fan, whose husband took action. En route to the hotel, the cab Jaskier had ridden in was followed for nearly 5 kilometers before being rammed into and crashing near the Lech Bridge.

The crash had killed both the assailant and the driver of the cab, and the singer had suffered ‘horrific injuries.’ As of the publication of the article, he was in the process of being airlifted to Freeman Hospital in his hometown after emergency surgery at Regional Hospital in Poznań. 

The article did not go into gory detail about the nature of Jaskier’s wounds, which Geralt attributed more to ignorance than any decency on the part of the author.

 _‘Oh well,’_ Geralt thought. _‘Maybe this’ll teach the poor bloke to slow down a bit. Perhaps he’ll realize he’s not invincible, and think twice before he goes and fucks another man’s wife.’_

He doubted it. Over the years, Geralt had heard of Jaskier’s escapades. Not because he'd made a point of keeping up with celebrity gossip. Far from it. 

With the exception of the occasional visit to see his mum in Jersey, Geralt remained willingly aloof from and ignorant of such ‘tosh and twaddle.’ It was due to Margaret Rivers’ fascination with the dizzying heights and devastating falls of the rich and/or famous that caused him to know any of it at all.

Geralt’s train of thought was derailed by the sudden shrill ringing of the phone. The hideous contraption was a rotary dial wall phone from the 1960’s that was puke-green. Geralt snorted in irritation and grabbed the handle before it rang again and woke his mother. “Hello?”

For several moments, there was nothing but silence on the other end. Just as he was about to dismiss it as a prank call or wrong number dialed, he heard a hoarse, plaintive “Wait! D-don’t hang up. Please.” The caller took a deep breath, wheezed, and dissolved into a fit of coughing.

Geralt frowned and covered his mouth to stifle another yawn. It wouldn't do for this caller, whoever he was, to hear him and think that he was bored or disinterested. The simple truth was that he was exhausted, even though he had slept for nearly 10 hours.

"I'm here," he said stiffly when the coughing died down. _Say what you need to say. **Spit it out,** man._

"Rivers. Is this Mr. Geralt Rivers?"

"Yes, speaking." It seemed odd to Geralt that he should have begged him not to hang up, before even figuring out he'd called the right person. "With whom am I speaking?"

The words sounded pedantic and overly formal, but Geralt was not and never had been what one might call _loquacious _. He had been educated in a series of austere boarding schools and a Trappist monastery where idle chatter was highly discouraged with the help of a whip. He could go weeks at a time without speaking to another person.__

__"I'm...this is Julian Pankratz...Jaskier," the caller said hesitantly. "I received your name and number from a mutual acquaintance of ours in Lambeth. James Pipkin."_ _

__"Ah, yes." Geralt sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. Jim had been his colleague for nearly 15 years before abruptly quitting and pursuing a job in music management, of all things. As if he knew a damn thing about it. "How is Jim? No, more importantly, how are you?"_ _

__"I'm really hurting, to tell you the truth. I've never been in so much pain in my life."_ _

__His voice broke off in another brief fit of coughing. He took a deep breath and continued._ _

__"Thanks for asking. I'm not an idiot. I know that most people think I deserve what happened, and take perverse pleasure in this incident. Anyway, I'm terribly sorry to skip the social niceties, but I actually called because I was wondering if -"_ _

__"You want me to protect you," Geralt said bluntly. "You need protection, and I need the job. The answer is yes. I'll be on the next available flight to Newcastle. Have Jim text me the details. I'll arrive in a few hours. In the meantime, Jaskier...take care."_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends,
> 
> I've been pleasantly surprised and pleased by the feedback for this thing so far, so thanks for that! As with all of my work, this story will not be very focused on rapidly paced action sequences, but on the developing relationship between Geralt and Jaskier. 
> 
> The choice of Great Britain as the location for much of the plot is based, not just because of the fact that the actors themselves are Brits but, in spite of my previous author's note, that is the country and culture with which I am most familiar, maybe even more than my own.


	3. People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt meets Jaskier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _You got here in the nick of time  
>  Thank God you're here.  
> You got here in the nick of time,  
> Thank God you did._  
>   
> -Lisa Marie Presley

When he arrived at the International Airport and stepped off the airstairs, Geralt found a thin, elderly man in a pinstriped suit holding a sign with his name on it. 

He gave the man what he hoped passed for an approachable smile and held out his hand. The man sniffed and pointedly ignored the proffered handshake. "Mr. Rivers, I presume. Please follow me."

The corners of Geralt's mouth turned down. He took a deep breath internally and trailed after the man. He led him out of the terminal where a beautiful cream and gray luxury car was parked at the entrance.

"My God," Geralt gasped. "That's a 1960 Armstrong Siddeley Star Sapphire!"

The old man sighed in exasperation. "Yes, it is. I suppose when one is unaccustomed to such things, one might find them quite thrilling."

"Yes," Geralt agreed. Inside he seethed and resisted the urge to put the arrogant arsehole in his place. He normally would never have shown such enthusiasm in front of a perfect stranger.

Besides his mum, he had been deprived of human contact for nearly a month, and was having to relearn how to interact with others.

"I suppose this must be Jaskier’s car.” Geralt commented when a considerable length of time had passed. The pinstriped pedant didn’t speak, but turned the volume up on the radio. The rest of the ride to the hospital was accompanied by _Goldberg’s Variations_. What a windbag.

The old man stopped at the hospital’s entrance. Geralt got out and took a deep breath to center himself. He was sorely tempted to slam the door, but reminded himself that he was here to work, and that such behavior could come across as unconscionably unprofessional. Let the old bastard mutter to himself as he struggled to find a space in the overcrowded car park.

Geralt ran his fingers through his hair and brushed the possibility of dust from his shoulders before walking in. In his blue polo, loose fitting khaki pants cinched with a belt, and dark blue and white canvas trainers, he felt uncomfortable and somewhat unprepared. Dressed like he was, he could be out and about for a stroll or headed to the shops.

The young woman at the front desk took no notice of his ensemble. In fact, she couldn’t seem to stop staring at his face. Having no driver’s license - in his line of work travel arrangements were always handled by someone else, and he had never seen the need for one - Geralt presented his passport and smiled neutrally as she blushed and quickly looked down.

“Mr. Pankratz is in Room ___ on Ward 38. Would you like me to page someone to come and escort you?”

“No thanks, love. I should be able to find it without too much trouble.”

He took his passport back and walked in the direction of the Ward, slipping it absently into his front pocket. He stared straight ahead of himself as he walked, paying no mind to whoever might be standing in his way. A few people cursed and flipped him off, but he didn’t notice or care.

He stopped outside the room with the nameplate PANKRATZ, A. JULIAN and gently rapped the door with his knuckles. The soft, raspy voice he'd heard on the phone mumbled for him to "come on in," so he did. He held his breath at the stench and plastered a polite smile on his face.

Jaskier was hooked up to so many machines he looked like a robot. His left leg was elevated in a beige cast, as was his right arm. The IV to the left of the bed provided a steady drip of morphine to manage his pain. The respirator to his right hissed every so often as it delivered a fresh puff of oxygenated air. 

The lining of his throat was covered with a large, grimy gauze pad in desperate need of changing. The small bit of skin that the gauze didn't cover was neatly jagged and sutured, making him vaguely resemble a doll. What was most distressing to Geralt was the fat peach colored colostomy bag hanging just off the right side of the bed.

"Jesus Christ." He hadn't intended to say it out loud, but Jaskier seemed to take it in stride. 

"Sure," he murmured. "I imagine it's quite an upsetting sight...divvin look so stricken, Geralt, I get it! I've 'bout had the pigs rooting about here all day, until the head nurse told them to fuck off. There's nothing much funnier than a ranting gadgie having a radgie, like." 

He laughed dizzily at Geralt's puzzled expression. "Aw shit, Geralt, I'm sorry to confuse you. It's easy to forget you're not a Geordie. Ugh, and there I go making assumptions again. But you're not from here, right? Our friend Jim failed to mention where you're from."

"Right," Geralt said. "I'm not from Newcastle. I'm not from the mainland at all. I'm from Jersey."

"Ah, the Channel Islands." Jaskier sighed and groaned softly as he struggled to sit up in bed. "It must be nice, living so close to the ocean. And to France." 

He winced and held his stomach. His movement caused Geralt to quickly step forward in alarm. "Now now, there’s no need for concern." Jaskier smiled wanly and held up his hand. "I knew a girl in Rouen once," he said brightly. 

"Sabine, I think was her name. Oh she had such a tight, wet cunt. Nearly gives me blue balls just thinking about it. What a canny cunny she had! Still has, I guess. Not that I'd know."

He laughed again until he wheezed, until thick gobs of blood and phlegm stained the sheets. His bright blue eyes fixed on Geralt’s frozen frame, widened in fear, and rolled back in Jaskier’s head as he fell heavily back against the pillow. 

The EKG monitor wailed as Jaskier flatlined. Geralt broke with his usual silent, morose demeanor and ran out into the corridor screaming for the nurse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to any of my readers who are native to Newcastle if I mucked up any of the lingo. 
> 
> To the best of my knowledge, the things Jaskier said mean roughly:
> 
> 'Divvin' look so stricken.../Don't look so upset...'  
> 'gadgie having a radgie.../a grown man throwing a fit.'  
> '...what a canny cunny she had!.../she had a nice p*ssy.'


	4. Nicotine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt needs a new mobile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _We're all numbers in the numbers game,  
>  Give me a long-stemmed rose to cover up the pain,  
> And if you don't win now, you might win later on,  
> So don't bother giving in before you're actually gone._
> 
> -Anet

"What the fuck, man." 

Geralt bit the inside of his cheek to bite back the string of vehement, vulgar profanity that was largely uncharacteristic of him. Apart from the occasional "damn" or "shit," and the rarer "fuck" or invocation of the Son of God, swearing was something that he simply didn't do.

"He looks like he's been in the trenches, Jim. Tell me what happened to him." 

He held the mobile between his neck and shoulder while he reached into his pocket for his Bic and pack of Marlboros. 

He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, feeling a surge of sudden calm as the nicotine entered his bloodstream.

Jim sighed and cleared his throat on the other end. "It was bad," he understated. "One of the bloodiest awful things I've ever seen."

"Ha, hilarious," Geralt said dryly. "And while I've always appreciated your gallows humor, now really isn't the time for it." 

He leaned over and snuffed the remnants of the cigarette out on the railing. 

"I'm on the balcony just outside his room. They've been in there working on him for about 15 minutes, but it feels like it's been hours. He could die, Jim."

Geralt's voice broke. "Now tell me exactly what happened. All the gory details."

"Alright," Jim said grimly.

The disgraced man, Marcin Wanek, had strangled his wife Veronika when she tearfully confessed to the affair, and had then set out to kill Jaskier.

Wanek paid the 500 złoty to get into Jaskier's last concert. 

He had followed Jaskier's taxi in his nondescript brown VW, and once near the Lech Bridge he accelerated and smashed into the back of the taxi at nearly 100km/hr, pushing it into a metal traffic barrier.

The blunt force trauma from the impact broke his right arm and left leg. His large intestine sustained massive damage. The impact immediately killed the driver - Peter Porowski - but somehow Jaskier had managed to stay conscious. 

In his last moments alive, Wanek crawled from the wreckage of his VW, pulled Jaskier from the shell that remained of the cab, screaming and sobbing, and with a jagged shard of glass from the window, Wanek stabbed the singer’s Adam's apple and weakly dragged the glass down his throat. Jaskier lost consciousness, and Wanek subsequently died from blood loss.

Geralt grunted. It all sounded so simple and brutal. The little prat’s antics had cost three people their lives, and very nearly his own. By rights, Jaskier should have died. 

Geralt clenched his free hand into a fist at his side and tightened the grip on his mobile with the other.

“It’s too bad Wanek’s dead. I would’ve liked to kill the man myself. I’d have enjoyed watching the light fade in his eyes.” The thought of a man putting his hands on a woman - his own wife, God forbid - and squeezing until her eyes bulged and she stopped breathing was maddening. Even if she had cheated on him. Hell, if the man had walked in on Veronika with Jaskier’s dick in her mouth, that would not have justified what he had done. “Poor kid. What will I do if he dies, Jim?”

It took Geralt about 10 seconds to realize that he had cracked his mobile, so no answer was forthcoming. 

“Oh, bloody hell. Now I need a new burner.”

The screen door abruptly slid open.

“Mr. Rivers? Julian has been stabilized. He’s awake now; he wants to see you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole bit about Jaskier's throat being damaged was of course inspired by episode 5. I tried to be as simple as possible in describing the events of the crash, but my medical knowledge is pretty basic. The thinking is that his voice is gone temporarily, because his voice box was not cut, though that was the man's intention. The blood he coughed up was due to internal bleeding. Poor baby. :(


	5. The Writing on My Father's Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter's title comes from a hauntingly beautiful song by Dead Can Dance, from their 1988 record _The Serpent's Egg_. It's sung in a series of nonsense syllables, one of Lisa Gerrard's trademark practices, but it sounds vaguely Gaelic to me.

When he went back into the room, the head of the bed was propped up and Jaskier was frowning, flipping through channels on the telly. 

He absently chewed his lower lip. His eyes were glazed, from boredom and from the higher dose of morphine being pumped into his system. 

Geralt was a little worried at the amount of painkillers he was being doped up with, but the thought was fleeting. 

He’d had his share of injuries himself - he’d been shot and stabbed and hit over the head with crowbars - but overall he’d never gone to a hospital for treatment. 

In his former line of work, he’d had his own private physician supplied by the organization to tend to him off the record, so to speak. 

While he’d never been treated in an NHS establishment, Geralt figured they knew what they were doing. Jaskier was comfortable, at least.

“Geralt!” he said brightly. His face seemed to light up. “So sorry for the scare, mate. Come on in.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth curved in an ugly half-smile. He sat down in the gray folding chair to the left of Jaskier’s bedside. He tucked one ankle behind the other and rested his folded hands in his lap. He almost felt like he was getting into position for a professional portrait.

Jaskier sighed and turned the television off. “Wouldn’t you know, there’s nothing good on. Nearly 100 channels and it’s nothing but shit!” Geralt, who only watched the telly on the rare occasions he stayed over at his mum’s - roughly every three months or so - nodded as if in commiseration.

“So!” the singer intoned loudly, “let’s get to know each other, shall we? Hi there, the name’s Julian Alfred Pankratz, at your service.” He held out his left hand awkwardly. He was so polite and pitiful that Geralt grasped it in both of his hands and squeezed. “Hello Julian - or do you prefer Jaskier? My name is Geralt William Rivers, at yours. At your service, I mean.”

He felt heat creep into his cheeks and knew his face must be as red as a tomato. His new employer, if he noticed, didn’t seem to mind. “Pardon the formality, I do prefer to be called Jaskier. The only one who ever got away with calling me ‘Julian’ was my mum.” He sighed wistfully and sniffled. 

Geralt didn’t ask why he used the past tense to refer to his mother, and Jaskier didn’t explain. “I suppose you answer to Geralt. If you don’t mind my asking, that’s rather an uncommon name…”

“Yes, I suppose it is. My mum’s family is Irish - her maiden name is Mac Gerailt - and she’s the one who named me. My father was a soldier who died in the Falklands before I was born.” Geralt released Jaskier’s hand and cleared his throat. He hadn’t realized he was still holding it. He took some solace in the fact that Jaskier was drugged out of his mind, and would in all likelihood not remember any of this.

“Man!” Jaskier exhaled sharply. “I’m sorry to hear it. I never knew my father, either.” He sniffed, and a few fat teardrops trailed down his cheeks. “It’s weird, like...it’s almost like we were fated to meet.”

Geralt smiled blankly, not quite knowing what to say to that. Sure, he’d heard such airy fairy, mystical talk before. His mother checked her horoscope daily, and seemed to take seriously the predictions made by self-proclaimed psychics. She seemed to find no contradiction between this and her devout Catholicism. Geralt didn’t know for sure, but he thought he remembered hearing some passage of Scripture condemning such things.

He changed the subject by clumsily asking about the ‘specifics’ of the job. “Ah, by which you mean your duties and compensation.” Jaskier smiled and flexed the fingers of his right hand. “Good God, it itches! I can hardly wait ‘til I get this bloody cast off. I know it’s a bit forward, but would you mind…?”

“Er, sure. I’ll do what I can to help.” 

Geralt stood and gingerly took hold of Jaskier’s elevated right arm. He gently kneaded his fingers and blew a puff of hot air on them. 

At Jaskier’s confused scowl, Geralt explained that that was how he’d handled itching when he broke his own arm in Year 7. 

A teacher had caught him trying to stick a coat hanger down into his cast to scratch the skin, and berated him for it until he’d cried.

“I’ll ask the nurse to bring you something to help. This’ll have to do in the meantime.”

“Thanks, no rush. It actually does help a lot. Now, about the job...”

Geralt was to become Jaskier’s bodyguard/caretaker for an indeterminate amount of time. He would be in hospital for another week, at least, and afterwards it would take another 6-8 weeks for him to recover. During that time, Geralt would provide Jaskier with some much needed protection from anyone who could pose a threat to him. The paparazzi, overzealous fans, the significant others of the women he’d bedded.

“And the men,” Jaskier said drowsily. “There weren’t very many, maybe a handful or so, but I’ve had some blokes, too. All Brits,” he added upon seeing Geralt’s stupefied stare. “Sorry to put it all out there that way. I hope you don’t think any less of me.”

“No,” Geralt said frankly. “Of course not.” He gave Jaskier’s fingers a final squeeze and backed away from the bed. “I’ll leave you to your rest. I’ll let the nurse know you need some hydrocortisone.”

He turned to leave, but stopped when Jaskier practically lunged toward him and grabbed his arm. “Geralt!” he gasped frantically. “You aren’t really leaving, right? You’ll come back to me, won’t you? You won’t be like the others.”

Geralt’s eyes burned. He reached up and gently disentangled Jaskier’s fingers.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “I’m leaving, but only for a little while. I’ll be back in an hour or two, I promise.”


	6. Strawberry Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _An honest mind, but such trifles are rare..._
> 
> \- _Strawberry Fair_ is a traditional English folk song rearranged and popularized by Anthony Newley in 1960.

When Jaskier woke some time later, he found Geralt asleep in the gray folding chair, his arms wrapped around his chest as he snored softly. 

When he heard the sheets rustle as Jaskier sat up, Geralt jolted awake with a start, his hands balled into fists, his teeth bared in a vicious snarl.

He relaxed immediately when he saw that Jaskier was awake, like a light switch had been flipped. He stood up and wiped the corners of his eyes with his fingertips. “Sorry,” he said apologetically. “I’m a pretty light sleeper. When I sleep at all.”

“No worries, mate. That’s actually pretty reassuring.” Jaskier yawned and scratched absently at his bandaged throat. “Yikes, this shit’s starting to itch, too. I’d better page the nurse to bring some more of that stuff.”

“No, it’s fine. She left the tube on the table. I could do it, unless you’d rather I didn’t.”

At the moment, it really didn’t make much of a difference to him either way. At least, that’s what he kept trying to tell himself.

“Sure, if you want. I mean, if you think that falls under the parameters of the job. You don’t have to, I mean.”

Jaskier blushed and picked up the remote to turn on the telly. He lowered the volume as some dolled up bobblehead droned on about this or that controversy, etc.

He tried to appear focused on the screen. But, when Geralt went into the bathroom to wash his hands and get the hydrocortisone, Jaskier discreetly scrutinized the tight curves of his behind, the pale skin of his back that showed when the material of his polo slid up…

 _Fuck, no! You’re not doing this again. He’s your bloody bodyguard, for fuck’s sake! Christ, man, calm down!_

Jaskier closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, Geralt was right beside him. He squeezed a penny sized bit of the cream onto his fingertip and obliviously rubbed the skin of Jaskier’s neck, outside of and around the gauze. His touch thrilled Jaskier and sent shockwaves through his entire body. He moaned and pushed Geralt’s hand away from him.

Geralt’s gray-green eyes widened. “I’m sorry, Jaskier. I hadn’t considered that I might hurt you.”

He set the tube on the small bedside table and sat back down in the chair. “If it still hurts, I’ll go get the nurse for you.”

“No, for God’s sake, man. I don’t need the bloody nurse!” Jaskier frowned and covered his face with his hand. 

“Look, I know that was cuntish of me. Sorry, Geralt. It's just that I’m so sore and out of sorts. It’s like they’ve cut back on the painkillers.”

“Er, they have.” Geralt nodded and tugged at his shirt collar nervously. “They er, they’re trying to wean you off the heavy stuff. ‘Planning to look into alternative palliative options,’ was how they put it when I asked.” 

Even before they’d met in person, Jaskier had listed Geralt as his next of kin, making him privy to any decisions made regarding his medical care.

It also meant that, in the event he was unable to decide, it would be up to Geralt to determine the type of care he should receive.

“They cut back on the morphine, and you didn’t even say anything?” Jaskier whined and stuck out his lower lip. He looked like a child who’d had his favorite toy or a piece of candy taken away. “You could have stopped them, Geralt.”

“Yes, I suppose I could have done. But I don't want you to get hooked on that shit." Geralt grimaced and furrowed his brow. "Take it from someone who knows. Addiction is something you don't want to trifle with. It'll change you, Jaskier, warp you. You won't be the same man you were before."

"Bollocks. That wouldn't be such a bad thing, at any rate. The whole world already thinks I'm an irredeemable bastard. It's because of me she died. Nika, and that Perowski bloke."

"Whoa. Nika?" Geralt frowned and leaned down to look Jaskier in the eye. His gaze was clear, his mind sharp and focused. "How do you know about what happened to the girl? Why would you know something like that?"

Jaskier whimpered and took a deep breath. 

"Nika was the one who asked me to come to Poland in the first place. You have to understand, I left the place when I was three, I never intended to go back. But then about a year ago, I got a letter from a fan in my hometown. It all started out innocently enough. She wrote to tell me she loved my work, and that it'd helped her through some tough times.

See, she was in an unhappy marriage, and she never thought she'd have the courage to leave...She asked me to come back to Poznań and sing for her, as a birthday present. Well I did, and one thing led to another and...now she's fucking dead, so she can never leave."

Jaskier suddenly howled like a wounded wolf.

"I heard them talking when they thought I was asleep. The doctors, the journalists. They felt so sorry for Nika and the driver. I heard one of them say that I should have been the one to die instead of them. And you know, Geralt, I can't say that I disagree with them."

He laughed hysterically and clutched his stomach, grunting at the pain. 

"I've something of a confession to make, Geralt: I think you're quite attractive. The very sight of your backside gave me a massive boner just now. I'll understand if you feel uncomfortable and don't want to work for me anymore."

Geralt blanched. "No," he said gruffly. He grinned, his teeth sharp and ivory, the keys of a piano filed to a thin point. 

"I work for you now. It makes no difference to me what people say about you, or what you've done in the past. It's a new day, after all."

It was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inclusion of further backstory on Veronika "Nika" came about because I realize I can't convincingly portray Jaskier as a debauched libertine/Playboy when really he's a hopeless romantic at heart who just wants to find true love. 🥺💔
> 
> Nika was largely inspired by a character of the same name in the 2007 film _Katyń_ by Andrzej Wajda.


	7. Tell Mama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt talks with his mum a bit, and Jaskier gets a bath. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Tell Mama all about it  
>  Tell Mama what you need  
> Tell Mama  
> And I'll make everything alright._
> 
> \- The Civil Wars

Immediately following their discourse, Jaskier fell back asleep. Geralt had kept his promise, returning from a voyage to the canteen and a smoke break precisely one hour after leaving. Jaskier had slept all afternoon and through the night, having woken at 6 the next morning. 18 hours, altogether.

Geralt noted that it seemed to take great effort for him to remain awake, weakened as he had been by pain and by the reduced administration of morphine. He tried to put out of his mind the things Jaskier had said to him, and the way he’d reacted to Geralt’s touch.

He stepped back out onto the balcony and lit up another Marlboro, his third in the past 24 hours. His mother often chastised him for it, dramatically waving her hands in front of her face when she found him smoking on her front porch. 

_They’ll_ kill you _one day, you know. You’ll get cancer or emphysema. You’ll have to be put on a ventilator. Mark my words!_

“Well, Mum, consider them marked.” Geralt mentally braced himself as he flipped open his new mobile - a cheap little clamshell he’d found in the concourse shop for £17.50 - and dialed his mother’s home number. It rang four times before Margaret answered with a groggy “Hello?”

“Mum, it’s me. I’m glad I caught you. Sorry to ring you so early.” 

He paused to take a hit, inhaled deeply, and coughed so roughly that he dropped the cigarette on the ground. What a waste. He stepped on the filter and dragged it across the cement.

His mother laughed breathily, in a manner he would almost call dainty. “Lord, Geralt, it’s a bit early to be having a fag, isn’t it? You must’ve gone through something pretty bad, eh? Tell Mama all about it.”

For the next few minutes, Geralt did, recounting the extent of Jaskier’s injuries, the horrible pain he was in, and that he’d be working with him for about three months. 

He left out the part about rubbing ointment onto the singer’s skin, and the reaction he’d had - that they’d both had.

Geralt was far from celibate - Margaret knew that well enough. Regardless of the very traditional, ultraconservative manner with which she’d raised him, she had long ago made peace with the fact that, as an adult, Geralt was not what one would deem as suitable for marriage, or monogamy.

Oh, he’d had a few dalliances every so often, but the nature of his work and his own stubbornness made the idea of a long-term relationship highly improbable, if not impossible.

_And then, there had been Yen. An agent for the BND, he’d met Yennefer Vengerberg on a mission, been assigned to work with her, and the rest had been history. At Christmas last year, he’d proposed to her, and although she had accepted, by Valentine’s Day she had broken off their engagement..._

To distract himself from the mental trip down memory lane, Geralt pinched the skin of his arm until he yelped. This elicited a worried interrogation from his mum, who was only placated when he snapped a photo of his arm on his mobile’s crappy camera and texted it to her.

“Ah hang! Sweetheart, don’t do that. Put a little iodine and a plaster on it, yeah? You don’t want it to get infected.”

Geralt smiled fondly. “No, of course not, Mum.” As far as she knew, he had spent the last 18 years ‘working for the government’ in an administrative and diplomatic capacity, sitting at various desks and doing lots of paperwork. He took extra care in ensuring that she never walked in on him changing clothes, and never disabused her of the notion.

Geralt snickered at the thought of what Margaret would do if she were to ever discover the truth of his former occupation. Likely, she’d smack the back of his head and box his ears, before going off on a mission to find and pummel everyone who had ever physically harmed him.

“Well,” his mum said blithely. “I’m glad to hear from you, Geralt. It’s been awhile since I’ve heard you talk like this.”

“Like what, Mum?”

“Like you’re happy, darling.”

* * *

When Geralt went back into the room, Jaskier looked absolutely miserable. He sulked and sighed dramatically when Geralt asked him what was the matter.

“The matter is that I apparently reek. It has been three days since I last washed, and according to Tamsin, that means I’m long overdue for a bed bath.” 

He coughed and covered his mouth, wiping it on the coverlet.

“Hm.” Geralt grunted. “That was awfully considerate of her to suggest, but if anyone’s going to be giving you a bath, it will be me.”

“Oho, I’m flattered.” Jaskier grinned and winked at Geralt, sticking the edge of his tongue out at him. “Well, shall we get on with it? I’d rather have it over and done with as soon as possible.”

“Fine.” Geralt rolled his eyes and went into the bathroom to assemble the materials he would need. After washing his hands and putting on a pair of gloves, he filled two small white basins with water and carried them to the table, balancing one on each arm like a waitress.

He went back to get the two towels, washcloths, wrapped bar of soap and small bottle of shampoo like he’d usually find in a hotel. After sitting the supplies down beside the basins, Geralt grabbed the sheets and pulled them off of Jaskier, tossing them unceremoniously to the floor. 

He reached behind Jaskier's head and untied the laces holding his gown closed. Jaskier gasped when Geralt pulled the thin blue fabric down and off of his shoulders.

"Are you cold? Sorry."

Geralt unfolded one of the towels and draped it across Jaskier's stomach. He tried to ignore the sight of the singer's nipples, pink and hardened in the chill air.

"Alright, I'll start with your arm." Geralt dipped a washcloth into a basin, wrung it out slightly and opened the bar of soap to rub onto the cloth. The scents of jasmine and lavender filled the air. 

_Not the most stereotypical masculine scents,_ Geralt thought. But they seemed to be perfect for Jaskier, who moaned softly and slackened in his hold as Geralt washed his left arm, front and back, and moved on to his chest. His head lolled to the side and rested against Geralt's stomach. 

"My goodness, Geralt," he chortled. "Is that a gun in your front pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

"Of course it's not a gun," Geralt snapped. "It's just that it's very chilly in here."

He eased Jaskier's head back into the pillow and moved to stand behind him. "Take the other cloth and rinse yourself off," he said curtly.

Dipping his hands into the other basin, Geralt passed his fingers through Jaskier's hair. He squirted a small amount of the shampoo onto the back of his head and kneaded it into a lather in Jaskier's scalp. _**"Mój Boże!**_ " he exclaimed. “That’s it, Geralt, just like that, mate…”

Before he could go about rinsing Jaskier’s hair, the door to the room was shoved open with such force that the hinges snapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ah hang!" is Jersey slang for "oh hell."
> 
> "Mój Boże!" is Polish for "My God!"


	8. Fire on Babylon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for a little more melodrama.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Fire on Babylon  
>  Oh yes, a change has come  
> Look what she did to her son  
> Fire_  
>   
> -Sinead O'Connor

"I'll thank you to take your hands off of him."

The intruder, a lithe, petite woman in her mid-40's, scrunched up her face and pinched her nose. She turned to the burly blond juggernaut who had forced the door open and chattered to him in Polish, her brown eyes softening as she caressed his cheek.

" _A_ _**ty**_!" she huffed as she turned to glare at Jaskier. Her face reddened and she gesticulated wildly with her hands as she shrieked at him, pointing at Geralt as if he weren't standing right there. 

" _Mamo, przestań_ ," Jaskier murmured. "Speak English." He blushed sheepishly and spread the dry towel out to cover his chest and stomach. "It's not really polite to…"

"Oh, it's not polite? And I suppose you are an expert on the subject -" She let loose a harsh, guttural string of syllables that reduced Jaskier to tears and caused Geralt to step forward, acting as a barrier between them.

"Excuse me, ma'am, if you're going to insult my -" His mind went blank, but he cleared his throat and carried on, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

The woman sneered at Geralt and muttered something to the other man under her breath. He shrugged and shook his head, pointing to Jaskier.

"Jaskier," Geralt's tone dripped with ice as he stepped back, obscuring him from the visitors' view. "Who are these people? Do you want me to call security?"

"No, no, Geralt, it's fine. They're fine. This is my mother, Julia Pankratz-Smytheton, Viscountess de Lettenhove, and my younger brother, Teddy."

"Tadeusz," the young man said firmly. "I told you. I'll stop calling you 'Freddie,' and you stop calling me that." His eyes, which were brown like the woman's, glinted with good humor. He smiled. "It's so good to see you again. I was worried about you when I heard what happened."

The woman - Julia - scoffed and shrugged her shoulders.

"I told you, Tadeusz, he has no one to blame but himself. Gallivanting about the country, pretending to be some bard, some sensitive, romantic artist. You are an embarrassment, Julian, and you always have been! Maybe some of the fault lies with me. Clearly I spoiled you too far much as a child. I thank God your father isn't alive to see you now."

Jaskier sniffled and flung his arm over his eyes. "Don't say that. Peter Smytheton may have been your husband, but he was never my father. He never tried to adopt me. He never wanted me. Sorry, Teddy," he added ruefully.

"Ha, do you hear that, Tadeusz? He doesn't respect you enough to call you by your name. Maybe he doesn't think of you as his brother." Julia laughed scornfully. She clapped her hands and rubbed them together vigorously, as if she were shaking off dirt.

"That makes what I am here to do that much easier." 

She scrunched her features up in a parody of reluctant sorrow. She wrung her hands and managed to force a trail of tears from her eyes as she said, “Julian, as much as this pains me, I am afraid that from this day, I can no longer think of you as my son.”

“Mum!” Tadeusz cried, as Jaskier wailed and Geralt’s mouth dropped open. “You - you didn’t say anything about this before -”

“No, son.” Julia smiled primly and patted Tadeusz’s cheek. “I didn’t want you to know, because of all people, you are the only one who could have changed my mind. Come along. We have to leave now if we want to get back to London by nightfall.”

Tadeusz sniffled and nodded. He came forward, and Geralt stepped aside to allow him to get close to Jaskier. 

At first glance, he had seemed hulking and intimidating, but as Geralt observed him with Jaskier, he realized that he was only a child, about 16 years old. Tadeusz leaned in close to Jaskier and pressed their foreheads together.

“I’ll r-ring you,” he stuttered. “Take care of yourself. _Kocham cię_.”

He turned and trailed after Julia, who by then was standing in the doorway. She was in conversation with the nurse, Tamsin, smiling and nodding her head.

“I’m so sorry about the door, love. You can gather an estimate and have a bill sent to me at...”

The world seemed to slow down, until Geralt was unconscious of anything but the feel of Jaskier’s hand on his back, as he gently tugged his shirttail.

He laughed giddily, his voice breaking on a sob as his mother and brother left. “Geralt, I know you want me to take it easy with the painkillers, but…”

“Alright, Jaskier. Whatever you need, you’ll have it.”

After what he had just witnessed, Geralt felt a sharp sense of dread and wondered if Jaskier would survive, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A ty!" = "And you!"
> 
> "Mamo, przestań" = "Mum, please"
> 
> "Kocham cię" = "I love you"


	9. Flickers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier leave the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _My instinct tells me I should walk this path alone  
>  And you can hope for a life that is calm  
> But come in time, you're gonna pick up one that feels  
> A little hard_
> 
> \- London Grammar

For the last three days of his stay at Freeman Hospital, Jaskier refused to eat or drink anything. During the day he stared listlessly at the ceiling, never moving and rarely blinking. 

A new IV bag was added to the stand to give him nutrients and fluids, and after Geralt’s initial hesitation, his morphine intake was gradually increased.

Through the night, Geralt sat in the folding chair, sleeping in fits and starts. He held Jaskier’s wrist, caressing it with his thumb and pressing down to feel his pulse point, which was sometimes static, and sometimes erratic.

Geralt changed the gauze dressing on Jaskier’s throat every four hours, and when it was needed, he changed the colostomy bag.

On their last day in hospital, Geralt had to phone Jim Pipkin in a scramble to find Jaskier temporary lodgings. He had not spoken to Julia - whatever the heck her surname was - again, but he had taken the letter addressed to Jaskier from her and opened it to read its contents. Since he had been virtually disowned, Jaskier had also been disinherited. 

As the illegitimate son of a Polish immigrant/former small-time folk singer who had married into a wealthy peerage family of Scottish and Dutch extraction, Jaskier had been granted access to resources and opportunities not generally available to ‘commoners.’ 

Years of boarding school, lessons in playing the guitar and lute, degrees in English and Music from Cambridge; tens of thousands of pounds spent that could never be got back again; and more than two decades of living in Britain and working hard toward some bright, hypothetical future when everyone would be proud of him. With a single sentence and the stroke of a pen, Jaskier had lost everything.

_In spite of all of this unpleasantness, Julian, it is my sincerest hope that you will recover and be well. Perhaps at some point in the future, when you have had the proper time to reflect and are more amenable to instruction -_

Geralt swore and tore the paper to bits, throwing them over the balcony to the street below. He fought the urge to light up his last Marlboro cigarette and instead chewed a stick of Orbit spearmint gum as he dialed Jim’s number. When he answered, Geralt dispensed with the usual pleasantries and got right to the point of his call.

“Jaskier’s mother has disowned him. If this is news to you, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”

“Really? That’s absolutely monstrous.” Jim made a show of sighing and grumbling theatrically. Geralt listened impatiently for about a minute as Jim rambled on about what a ‘selfish, conniving bitch’ Julia Pankratz was. “At least for as long as I’ve known her. So, about two months, more or less.”

Two months. On the one hand, that wasn’t hardly any time at all. And yet, so much could happen in that brief span of time. One’s life could be upended and change entirely overnight.

“Yes, well, I’ve met the woman once, and I’m not keen to cross paths with her ever again, for my part. Look Jim, I’m calling because Jaskier is about to be discharged from Freeman and I have no idea what to do, or where to go.”

“Well,” Jim began tentatively. “I suppose you two could room with your mum for a while?”

“Jim, she lives in a single-story bungalow with one bedroom. There’s barely enough room for herself as it is, and when I visit we’re packed together like salmon on a fish farm. You have to help us find a place. Pull all the strings, call in a few favors, do something. What about the money Jaskier has made independently over the years, from concerts and the like?”

“What money?” Jim laughed bitterly. “Whatever he didn’t spend on blow or booze went to cover the funeral costs for that Petrowski bloke, and the damages paid to the girl’s family.”

“The girl’s family?” Geralt’s brow furrowed.

“Yeah, the little girl Jaskier fucked around with. Her family brought a civil suit against him for wrongful death. It seems they had this crazy notion that if Jaskier hadn’t messed with their daughter, she might still be alive.”

“Imagine that.” Geralt growled and massaged the side of his head. He could feel a migraine coming on. “So what you’re saying is that there’s no money left.”

“Zilch. Zero. Nada.” Jim sighed. “And listen, I’m not unsympathetic to your plight, but I have bills to pay and mouths to feed. I’ve put my Economics degree to good use and taken a job with Credit Suisse. I’m in the process of relocating to Zurich.”

“What?” Geralt blinked and stuttered. “Maybe I didn’t hear you right. It sounded like you said you’re not Jaskier’s agent anymore, and that you’re leaving. But that can’t be right, can it?”

“Too right, Geralt. As much as it pains me, I can’t wait around for Jaskier to write some smash hit record and chart again. I am a businessman, not a charity case worker.”

“Fuck you.” The words left Geralt’s mouth before he could stop them. He took a deep breath.

“Yes,” Jim said sadly. “ _Fuck me_. Goodbye, Geralt.”

When he hung up, Geralt ripped the phone apart and stomped on the pieces until his foot ached. He spat out the gum and reached into his pocket for his last cigarette and lighter.

He had no money on him to buy any more, but at the moment his emotional torment outweighed his pragmatism.

He'd had the polo shirt and khakis laundered, but other than that he had nothing. 

The clothes on his back, an ill-fitting, long sleeved tunic and breeches that made him feel like he was an understudy for Hamlet at the Royal Theatre, belonged to Jaskier. 

_Bloody hell! What are we going to do now?_ Geralt fumed as he smoked his last Marlboro, filter and all.

He laughed to avoid breaking into tears as he went back into the room to use the landline.

* * *

“Well, here we are. It’s not much, I know - certainly not what you’re used to - but we won’t be here long.”

At £125 per night, they really wouldn’t be. Geralt estimated they would be able to afford to stay at the inn for a week, if that. The Wasdale Head Inn in Cumbria had been a refuge for Geralt in the days following the breakup of both his engagement and his profession the previous month.

In the Lake District, amidst England's tallest mountains, Geralt's heart and mind had healed somewhat following what had proven to be the greatest pain of his life so far. He could only hope that the place would prove to be similarly curative for Jaskier.

Jaskier smiled as he took in the room. With two beds, a bureau, a telly, a bathroom, and a kitchenette with a stove-top, it was nearly twice as large as the studio flat in London he'd rented for the last few years.

"This'll have to do, I suppose," he said imperiously. "It's great, thank you," he added when he saw Geralt's stricken expression. "I've traveled a lot through the country, but this may be the most beautiful place I've been."

"Really? I thought the same thing when I first came here." 

Geralt leaned down to lock the wheelchair in place. He paused to run his fingers through Jaskier's hair, reveling in the silky texture after its first proper wash in a week. Jaskier sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes.

They stayed that way for a few moments, a brief respite from their fear of the future. When he'd told Jaskier about the call with Jim, the singer seemed to take the news of his newfound destitution in stride. He laughed until he clutched his side and tears streamed down his cheeks.

"Ouch, I guess I should take a little more care. One day out of hospital and I guess I think I'm invincible. Oh Geralt, you'll think I'm mad, but honestly this might be the best thing that could have happened to me. I'm **_free_** , Geralt. I needn't worry about living up to that old bitch's ridiculous standards anymore."

"She didn't seem that old to me. Maybe just a few years older than myself."

"She's 45...how old are you?" Jaskier looked up into Geralt's eyes. The intensity of his stare made Geralt's heart beat just a little faster.

"I'm 36," he said stiffly, suddenly feeling ancient. "I'll be 37 in May. How old are you?"

"27," he murmured. "Jeez, I thought we were about the same age. You look really good for your age."

Geralt sighed. "I'm not that old," he groused. "I had just started at Eton about the time you arrived in the UK."

"You went to Eton, too?" Jaskier smiled and nudged Geralt's side with his elbow. 

"Was old Fr. Pruitt the chaplain then? I was an acolyte for a while. At least until I decided it would be funny to fill the thurible with marijuana at Easter in Year 11. Wanted to leave my mark on the place, I guess."

"That was **you**?" Geralt laughed. "Good Lord, I heard about that from Pruitt himself at my class's 10-year-reunion. It's a good job you wanted to go down in the annals of Etonian history, because you succeeded. Even if the old windbag didn't use your name directly."

Jaskier's stomach rumbled loudly. He snickered and ran his hand through his hair. “Ha, sorry Geralt. I’ll take that as a sign we should go eat.”

Geralt turned away from Jaskier so he wouldn’t see him cry. “We should. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies again for any inaccuracies in English geographic or cultural matters. As an incorrigible Anglophile and an American, my only points of reference are books, articles, and television programs on PBS or BBC America.


	10. Mama Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier finally eats something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Let my heart go  
>  Let your son grow.  
> Mama, let my heart go  
> Or let this heart be still..._  
>   
> \- Metallica

From the moment they entered Ritson’s Bar, Geralt and Jaskier were the center of attention, much to his chagrin. From the moment Jaskier introduced himself, they were quickly seated at a booth in the middle of the room. The place was not particularly crowded, but Geralt felt uneasy that all eyes in the room seemed to be fixated on them.

He did his best to hide behind the menu the waitress brought, a bright-eyed red-headed girl in her early 20’s who shyly asked Jaskier for his autograph. “Of course!” he practically shouted. “Geralt, will you help me unfold the napkin? There’s a good lad.”

“Bloody hell.” Geralt grunted and did as he was asked. “Don’t call me ‘lad,’” he murmured gruffly. “I’m nearly 10 years older than you, as you so tactfully informed me.” He sighed and turned his attention back to the menu as the waitress giggled and gave Jaskier a fine-point felt-tipped marker.

“Who should I make this out to, love?” Jaskier asked, winking and sticking the tip of his tongue out. The question reduced the poor girl to a stuttering mess, but presently she was able to say “Nina.” She grabbed the autographed napkin and clutched it to her bosom. “Thank you!” she squealed. “Oh my God, thank you, thank you!”

When she all but skipped away to get their drinks and appetizers - “a couple bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale, and some fish and chips” - Geralt grabbed the collar of Jaskier’s shirt. 

“Stop that. You haven’t even been out of hospital for a whole day, and you’re already hopping right back into your partying playboy routine.”

“My, my, is someone perhaps feeling a bit jealous? There’s no need, I don’t even know the girl! She’s a fan, a groupie, she could never compare to you! Why, you’re my best mate, Geralt!” He laughed loudly and draped his left arm awkwardly across Geralt’s shoulders.

“Hmm. That’s good.” Geralt said, somewhat redundantly. All things considered, he was Jaskier’s **only** mate. “And I’m not jealous, I’ll have you know. I just don’t want you making a fool of yourself on your first day back in society.” He could only imagine the headlines that would show up in all the tabloids if Jaskier kept fucking around.

When he thought of it, Geralt realized that the paps would make stuff up no matter what he did. He pulled Jaskier’s arm off his neck and squeezed his hand gently as Nina set down their bottles and two small platters of fish and chips. She seemed to have calmed down, as she merely winked and nodded at Jaskier before turning to attend to the other guests.

Geralt opened the bottle of ale and sniffed it suspiciously before taking a sip, while Jaskier stared at him expectantly. “Not bad,” he said. “But not the best I’ve ever had.”

Jaskier gasped in mock outrage. “It’s ‘not bad,’ er? You say it like it’s a compliment, but you’ve besmirched the pride of my hometown! You’ve betrayed me, Geralt!”

“Oh, pipe down. Christ, you can’t even say it’s properly from Newcastle anymore. It’s brewed in North Yorkshire, now.” Geralt wasn’t exactly sure why he knew that. Jaskier instantly quieted down and stabbed the tines of his fork into the fish, glaring daggers at Geralt like a chastened child.

Geralt watched him try and fail several times to tear off a small portion of the fish with his teeth and took the fork from him. “Give me that,” he ordered tersely.

He picked up his knife and cut the fish into bite sized pieces, which he fed to Jaskier one by one after dipping them in the little cup of tartar sauce, aware that everyone was still watching them.

“You should’ve got the bangers and mash,” he muttered as he dabbed at Jaskier’s chin with his napkin. Since Jaskier had given his own away, they would have to share.

“I don’t like bangers.” Jaskier smiled mischievously. “Though I guess that’s a bit misleading. Normally they’re what I go for, but on occasion plain old sausage will do.”

“What do you mean, they’re the same exact - good God, man, you are incorrigible. You’re such a **_child_**.”

“So says the man who’s cut up my food and is feeding me piecemeal. Oh, do the chips next. Dip ‘em in ketchup for me, yeah?” Jaskier snickered. He picked up his bottle of ale, downed the whole drink in one go, and reached for Geralt’s.

“Jaskier! I told you to stop.” Geralt grabbed the bottle away from him and drank it, struggling to hold back the urge to smack the smug expression off of Jaskier’s face. 

Jaskier smiled sadly and unexpectedly burst into tears. “I’m sorry, Geralt. I j-just want all this to go away. I w-want to wake up and find that all of this was nothing but a n-nightmare. I c-can’t believe my own mum would do this to me…”

Geralt growled ferally. He took Jaskier’s face in his hands and looked him in the eye. “Don’t ever apologize for feeling pain, Jaskier. What Julia has done to you is unforgivable. She may have left you - they all may have done, but I swear to God - no, I swear to **you** \- that is not going to be the case with me. I’m here for you, Jaskier, so you’d better get used to it.”

 _ **Yes!**_ he thought fiercely. _Even when the money runs out, even if I have to scrub toilets or sell scrap metal or shovel horse manure, I will do whatever it takes to give you a roof over your head, make sure you’re fed, and have a bed to sleep in._

As Jaskier buried his face against his chest and sobbed, Geralt gingerly picked him up and carried him back to their room. 

He would come back for the wheelchair later. At the moment, he was focused on the musician’s soft, dense weight in his arms as he abruptly fell asleep.

As the crowd watched, he kissed Jaskier’s forehead.


	11. Wherever You Will Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier gets some good news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _If I could, then I would  
>  I'll go wherever you will go  
> Way up high or down low, I'll go wherever you will go_
> 
> -The Calling

A few days later, the landline phone rang and woke Geralt from what had been a dead sleep. He cleared his throat to keep from growling as he answered. “Hello?”

“Oh, hi. This is...Geralt, innit?”

“Yes, who is calling?” Geralt asked bluntly. By his estimation, he had about £400 left, enough for a couple of more nights at the inn, plus some food and incidentals. 

Yesterday he had hired a cab for £45 and traveled nearly 19 kilos to shop in Seascale, the nearest town of size. There he had bought a gray crew neck jumper for £25, and visited the chemist for a refill of Jaskier’s hydrocodone-paracetamol tablets, free of charge, God bless the NHS.

The caller chuckled nervously. "This is Tadeusz Smytheton - Teddy, Jaskier's younger brother. Is he around?" His voice rose hopefully. "I was wondering if I might speak with him. I have some news."

"Really. Has your mother come to her senses and accepted him back as her son? Sorry, kid, he's sleeping, pretty soundly. He's had a rough few days, as I'm sure you understand.”

"Oh." The teen exhaled sharply. "No, our mum hasn't changed her mind. She has always quite disapproved of his lifestyle. I do not agree with her at all, mind you. I’ve always looked up to my brother. I love him.”

The boy’s guilelessness was so stark and sweet it nearly caused Geralt to tear up. “Wait a moment. I’ll wake Jaskier, and you can tell him what you need to. He will be very glad to hear from you.”

That was something of an understatement. After the night in the bar, Geralt had kept Jaskier isolated in their room as he alternately slept and wept, clinging to Geralt desperately like a drowning man to a buoy. Though there were two beds, they shared one, Geralt sitting up alert as Jaskier slept beside him, his head resting on his chest. Geralt held him as he muttered and shook, his pale skin beaded with sweat as he relived the trauma of the crash, compounded by the pain of everything else.

Hearing from his younger brother, one of the only people in the whole world who seemed to love him unconditionally, would do wonders for him. “Jaskier,” Geralt murmured as he softly patted his cheek. “Wake up, mate. Your brother’s on the phone.”

When Jaskier whimpered sleepily, Geralt held the receiver up to his ear and ordered Tadeusz to say something. He did, letting loose a stream of rapid-fire Polish that woke Jaskier up and made him laugh until snot dripped from his nose.

Geralt watched Jaskier’s eyes brighten and color return to his cheeks as he spoke with his brother. His heart felt full when Jaskier looked at him and smiled happily. “ _Zamknij się, nie wierzę w to_!” he said enthusiastically. “ _Powiedz mi prawdę_.”

Geralt absently stroked the back of Jaskier’s head, his lips curving in a vague smile as he listened to him chatter on. 

When Jaskier said “ _dzięki_ ” and handed him the phone, it took all of Geralt’s willpower not to lean down and kiss him. He was beginning to understand why so many women and men fell for him. He was absolutely intoxicating.

“Great news!” he chirped as Geralt hung up the phone. “Teddy’s going to let me borrow his car. And he’s found me a place in Wiltshire! He says it’s not much, but he’s paid the deposit and the first two months' rent to help us out until I get back on my feet, so to speak. Please Geralt, come with me! I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

 _Likewise,_ Geralt thought. Out loud he scoffed and said, “Where else am I going to go?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zamknij się, nie wierzę w to = "I don't believe it"  
> Powiedz mi prawdę = "Tell me the truth"  
> Dzięki = "Thanks"
> 
> I feel that I should note I had Isaac Hempstead-Wright in mind when I wrote Tadeusz/Teddy, and Keeley Hawes in mind for Julia Pankratz.


	12. The Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt makes a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _One promise you made  
>  One promise that always remains  
> No matter the price  
> Promise to survive  
> Persevere and thrive  
> As we've always done_
> 
> -Chris Cornell

The "place" Teddy had rented for Jaskier in Wiltshire was a single room on the ground floor of an old malthouse that had been converted into a three-story flat building in the 1990’s. 

It was located in the small village of Castle Combe, about 8 kilos northwest of the market town Chippenham. There were about 500 residents. The town was very quaint and provincial and - as Geralt noted with some distaste while perusing the brochure - “represented by Tories.”

“Oh, they’re not all bad,” Jaskier murmured, struggling not to fall asleep as he lay on the futon, the only furnishing in the otherwise bare room. His head rested on Geralt’s lap, and he idly toyed with a loose thread on the hemline of Geralt’s jumper. “My stepdad was a Tory. My mum’s a Tory. _**I’m**_ a Tory.”

“Come off it,” Geralt sneered. “You are no such thing.” He took Jaskier’s hand. “And don’t do that. You’ll make the material rip and then I’ll be shirtless.” He twined his fingers through Jaskier’s as the younger man smirked cheekily. 

“Promises, promises. There’s nothing to come off _of_ , Geralt, I’ve hardly begun to even get _on_. I registered to vote and joined the Conservative Party on my 19th birthday, the same day I officially became a bona fide Brit. I have my voter ID somewhere, stored away in some bureau with my naturalization papers. I’ll track them down someday, if you like. I’m a bit hurt that you don’t believe me.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt that you may be on the Party membership rolls. I’m sure like all good children, you merely joined to please your mum. That’s what I did, anyway.”

Geralt closed the brochure and ran his hands through his hair. It was getting a bit shaggy and unkempt. “I just meant to say that you’re not a true Conservative, ideologically. You are one of the most bohemian, flamboyant people I’ve ever met. And I have met a lot of people.”

“So what are you saying? You mean because I’m a little bit eccentric and liberal, I don’t fit the mold of being a Tory, and therefore can’t possibly be one? That hurts a bit worse.” Jaskier scrunched his face up in mock irritation.

“And I resent this sudden superior attitude you’ve assumed, just because you’re a little older than me. I’m 10 years your junior - no, not quite 9 ¾ years. That hardly gives you license to go out of your way to make me feel ignorant or inexperienced, just because -”

Jaskier gave an excited gasp as Geralt leaned down and kissed him. Geralt sucked quickly at his lips and broke away, his face flushed nearly purple as he turned toward the door. “Hush, Jaskier” he rasped. “I think there’s somebody at the door. I’m going to see who it is. Wait here,” he added needlessly as he stood up and eased Jaskier’s head onto the armrest.

Jaskier watched in a daze as Geralt walked across the floor to the door. He opened it to find two thin, white-haired old women smartly dressed in plum velvet dresses, like they were going to or coming from church. Sure enough, they held small silver Bibles in their hands. "Er, hello." Geralt said stiffly. "What can I do for you?"

"Hello," the woman to the right said airily. "We're going round the neighborhood, speaking to people on the subject of God's Kingdom. Tell me, have you ever stopped and wondered to yourself what God's Kingdom is?"

"No," Geralt said bluntly. "Usually my mind is on more...secular matters." He smiled politely and accepted the proffered magazine, which had a beautiful vista of the sun rising over a mountainous valley, a flock of birds in flight. 

“Thank you, ma’am. For future reference, my partner and I -” he snickered inwardly as the old women’s eyebrows shot up - “we’re both Catholics, and while we can appreciate what you’re doing, we’d like our names and address to be taken off the contact card, or calling list, or whatever the bloody hell you lot call your cataloging system. Have a good day, now.”

He laughed uproariously as soon as he slammed the door, tearing the magazine in half, then fourths, then eighths and tossing the shreds of paper to the floor. 

“Jaskier, did you get a load of that? Our first day in town, and the fundies already have us in their sights. Too bad you can’t walk yet, I’d have loved to see the looks on their faces if I were to snog you in front of them! I don’t know which was worse to them, the fact that we’re members of the ‘Great Whore of Babylon,’ or that they think we’re a couple of poofters.”

He continued laughing as he sat down again, cradling the back of Jaskier’s head in his arms. The laughter instantly died down when he saw the look of befuddled rage on his face. “What’s the matter? Did I say or do something wrong?”

Jaskier huffed and rolled his eyes. 

“Of course not. Why would anything be the matter? You just kissed me to shut me up, and then had a massive laughing fit about it, more or less! You could have ignored them and just let them knock!” 

He stuck out his lower lip and clenched his eyes shut. “You know, the thing that hurts me most of all - more than any broken bone, more than having my innards essentially smashed to bits - is to be an object of ridicule because of my coital proclivities! To be rejected, to be just...so casually dismissed and treated as a plaything, when you know bloody well and good that I fancy you!”

“Wait - that’s not what I’m doing…” Geralt’s eyes widened. He brushed Jaskier’s cheek with his thumb, catching some of his tears as they fell. “Jaskier, look at me. Listen to me.” 

When Jaskier slowly opened his eyes, red-rimmed and tear-streaked, Geralt felt a slight pressure in his chest again, a pain that enraged him and made him want to protect Jaskier, to tear anyone who hurt him apart limb from limb. Now, knowing that he was the cause of Jaskier’s suffering, he felt powerless.

“Jaskier, I’m sorry. I don’t know what else you want me to say. I care for you, alright? If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have traveled over 500 kilometers to be with you. Especially not without the expectation of remuneration.”

Jaskier bit his lip until it bled. “Stop!” Geralt ordered. He framed Jaskier’s face in his hands. “Please, stop that.” He bent down and kissed him again, probing his cut lip with his tongue. The salty taste of his tears blended with the metallic tang of blood made Geralt lightheaded.

“I’m sorry,” he echoed when he broke the kiss, taking a deep, gasping gulp of air before kissing him again.

“I’m sorry,” he said when Jaskier began to cry again. He kissed Jaskier’s chin, throat, and chest, slipping his hand inside the band of his boxers. Jaskier moaned when Geralt curled his fingers around him.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated as he tightened his hold. Jaskier whimpered and thrust upward, grunting in pain as the movement jostled his broken leg. Geralt frowned and gently got up, kneeling in front of the futon and holding Jaskier down as he opened his mouth over him, sucking through the cotton.

Geralt wanted to feel Jaskier inside him. He serviced him with that desire, as if he could draw him inside of him. He squeezed his fingers closed at the base of Jaskier’s penis and felt a surge of satisfaction as the singer thrust into his mouth in response.

Geralt tightened his hold, pulling and pumping Jaskier, tasting the wet cotton and something else that made him hard. The material bunched over the head of Jaskier’s cock with every push. Jaskier groaned low in his throat, then cried out as he burst and spilled into the cloth barrier.

Geralt came with a soft moan, and held out his hand to stop himself from collapsing on top of Jaskier’s waist. Jaskier reached out and splayed his hand across Geralt’s back, tracing the contours of his muscles through the gray wool of his jumper. He frowned playfully. “You’re wearing far too many clothes for my liking, Geralt. Take your jumper off.”

Geralt did, shivering slightly from more than cold as Jaskier’s fingers explored him, the map of old wounds and ridged scar tissue. “My God, Geralt!” he gasped, as he touched the marred flesh to the left of Geralt’s spine, a souvenir from a nasty gunshot wound. “What did you **_do_** before you worked for me?”

“Didn’t Jim ever tell you? I...worked for the Crown. It’s a long story, one I’ll be glad to tell you another time. Preferably when I’m fully dressed, and when neither of us is marinating in his own cum.”

“Oh, right! Sorry.” Jaskier moved his hand away from Geralt’s back to cup his chin. “Come here,” he said softly, and Geralt sat up and kissed him again.

“Leave it,” Jaskier said sleepily when Geralt suggested he ought to go get some tissues so they could clean themselves up. “We can clean up after we have a little nap, before we go to the shops for dishes and clothes, and the like. A little siesta is good for circulation, or so I’ve heard. We can go to a pub for a bite on the way back, if you want.”

“Sure,” Geralt agreed as he lifted Jaskier’s torso and pulled him atop his chest as he leaned back on the futon. He held him snugly, Jaskier’s broken leg nestled between his legs.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” he said, just for the heck of it, the beauty of the word as it rolled off his tongue. “That’s Polish, isn’t it? What does it mean?”

“ _‘Buttercup,’_ ” Jaskier mumbled sluggishly. “It was a nickname my mum gave me...she said I was always her ‘little ray of sunshine, her cheerful little buttercup.’ She used to like me quite a lot, back when she thought I was an obedient, dutiful son. Before I was old enough to think for myself.”

Geralt hugged Jaskier and whimpered. “I’m sorry,” he said, for what seemed like the fifth time in as many minutes. He doubted so little time had passed, but he had neither the strength nor the inclination to find out what time it was. It hardly mattered.

He kissed Jaskier’s nose and forehead, the top of his head. “I hate that you have had to go through this, and that I contributed in any way to your pain. Try to sleep now. I will not fail you again. I swear it.”


	13. As the World Turns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt are outed, so to speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "If everybody minded their own business, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does."  
>   
> \- The Duchess, _Alice in Wonderland_

From the outside, _The Flibbertigibbet_ looked just like any of the other plainly picturesque cottages throughout the village. The old-fashioned wooden sign hanging from the front doorway caught Jaskier’s attention.

“What does that mean?” he asked Geralt, pointing at the sign. “Flib-flibber...what is that, Geralt?”

“Flibbertigibbet,” Geralt murmured. “It’s a word that’s used to describe a gossipmonger, or a person who is a bit forgetful and distractible, or someone who prattles on and can’t take a hint when it’s time to stop talking." 

“So, somebody like me.” Jaskier smiled with good humor and reached behind him to squeeze Geralt’s hand. “At least, sometimes. I’d like to think that I can take a hint when you want me to be quiet.”

Geralt’s throat rumbled with suppressed laughter. “You can, sometimes,” he said as he pinched the back of Jaskier’s neck. “But there are other times that make one wonder...”

“Why do you do that?” Jaskier bristled. “Why do you have to speak so formally, all the bloody time? ‘Make one wonder.’ Jesus, Geralt, it’s the 21st Century! You talk like you’ve stepped right out of the pages of one of Dickens’ novels.”

"Is that right?" Geralt smirked. "I can't say I've ever read any of his works. He always seemed a bit overrated to me. Like Shakespeare."

He bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud at Jaskier's exaggerated gasp. He knew just what to say to needle the melodramatic young singer, who also considered himself something of an accomplished thespian because he had played the lead roles in a few of Shakespeare's plays in university.

"Take that back!" Jaskier yelped. "You can't have meant that, take it back!"

“Alright, alright. Fine. I take it back, OK? Shakespeare isn’t entirely overrated.”

“Well, that’s a relief. At least now I know that you don’t regard one of the finest Englishmen in history as a total fop.”

“Yeah. He was a...pretty smart guy.” Geralt grimaced. _Forget the fact that the miserable plagiaristic pedant stole other people’s works and just put his name on them._

“And anyway, to answer your question as to why I ‘speak so formally, all the bloody time:’ believe it or not, that is how I was raised to speak, in the series of boarding schools and Catholic monasteries I was educated in.”

Jaskier didn’t respond, so Geralt didn’t talk about it any further. He walked in front of the wheelchair to push open the pub’s door, holding it open with his foot while he backtracked and rolled Jaskier inside. The interior of the pub was dim and gaudy, one long bar with six mahogany Queen Anne armchairs instead of stools. 

A thin middle-aged brunette outfitted like a Bavarian bar maid stood behind the bar, squinting her eyes as she read a newspaper spread out in front of her. She looked up when she heard the door close, narrowing her brown eyes warily. “What’s yours, gents?”

“Hello. I don’t know. We’ll need to look at the menu.” Geralt flashed what he hoped was a civil smile and rolled Jaskier to the end of the bar. He sat down beside him, taking care to keep a hand on the armrest as he locked the wheelchair into place.

Jaskier blinked and focused on the menu board above their heads. “I’ll have a pint of Newcastle Brown and a bag of pork scratchings, to start.”

“Make that two pints of Newcastle, and two bags of pork scratchings.” Geralt suddenly yawned loudly and covered his mouth. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m terribly sorry. One would think I hadn’t got any sleep last night.”

“You didn’t, hardly.” Jaskier whispered, just loud enough for the bartender to hear. “And I believe I’m to blame for that. My apologies.” He wiggled his eyebrows and leered at Geralt as he groaned and lay his head down on the bar.

“For God's sake, Jaskier. Is a little subtlety quite beyond your capabilities? Your brother sent us to Wiltshire so that you might recover with at least a _modicum_ of privacy. Are you trying to deliberately sabotage his effort?”

“Maybe,” Jaskier said saucily. “And what if I am? Are you going to punish me for it?”

“Jaskier, please, for the love of God. Please just stop talking, for like five minutes. Then, you can say whatever stupid nonsense you want to. Ma’am, I’d like to go ahead and order three more pints of Newcastle Brown. Better yet, six. And a plate of spaghetti bolognese, if you please.”

“Yes, sir. Coming right up.”

Geralt eyed the woman suspiciously as she went about her business, doing nothing particularly questionable. Still, for some reason he couldn’t articulate, he was overcome by a potent wave of dread. 

He dug into the pocket of his chinos and lay a £20 note on the bar. “Thanks love, but actually something has come to my attention. We'd better get going.”

Geralt got up and pushed Jaskier out of the building as quickly as he politely could, with the younger man gasping and sputtering indignantly all the while.

“What the hell, Geralt? I was just teasing you, mate, having a bit of fun. I wasn’t going to say anything else, honestly.”

“Good,” Geralt said blankly. His voice sounded like he was very far away. "Maybe you're learning a bit of subtlety from me, after all."

Out of the view of prying eyes, he leaned down and nibbled on Jaskier's earlobe. "I'm sorry to have rushed out, but I want you all to myself. I hope that's alright?"

"Yes," Jaskier rasped, leaning his cheek against Geralt's. "I prefer it, as a matter of fact."

Within the pub, the bartender smiled wanly as she took out her mobile and typed out a message to the somewhat shady patron who had visited _The Flibbertigibbet_ the previous night.

_**I found that gimp singer you were looking for...He was just here. He must be staying nearby. Bring round the 50 quid you promised and I'll tell you all I know.** _


	14. No More Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt uses his words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hold me down and hold me close tonight  
>  Feel you warm, I feel you by my side...  
> Hold me down and give me all your power  
> Hold me close in every single hour._
> 
> -Anna Calvi

When he opened the door the next morning, Geralt’s heart stopped at the sight of several media vans camped out on both sides of West Street. 

Upon seeing him, a swarm of paparazzi ran toward him, and he was inundated with camera flashes and a cacophony of shouting voices. Geralt slammed the door and locked the deadbolt.

The noise woke Jaskier, who yawned and moaned drowsily as he sat up on the futon. “What’s all the racket about? Am I dreaming, or is this real?”

The corners of Geralt’s lips turned down into a baleful scowl. 

“No, Jaskier, you’re not dreaming. Unfortunately, it appears we’ve been found out. I knew it was a bad idea to go out to that pub. I bloody well knew it!”

“Hold on.” Jaskier rubbed his eyes and blinked until Geralt came into better focus. “If that was what you thought, why did you agree to go there in the first place?”

Geralt growled and slumped down on the futon beside Jaskier, holding his bound left leg in his lap. He ran his fingers over Jaskier’s toenails and frowned. “I have got to trim these soon, or you’ll wind up looking like a vagrant. We can’t have that.”

“Right,” Jaskier conceded. “We can go to the shops later for a pair of clippers, if you want. But Geralt, you haven’t answered my question. Answer me!”

“Alright,” Geralt sighed wearily. “I let us go because it was after dark, and I hadn’t expected to be seen by anyone - not by anyone of consequence, anyway.”

Jaskier gasped, though in mock or genuine offense, Geralt couldn’t tell.

“Oho, ‘anyone of consequence?’ Now what is that supposed to mean? You have spent far too long on your high horse. What with your cultured, posh accent, your high-end liberal arts education, your jet-setting days of yore in your previous occupation. You haven’t the slightest idea of what it’s like to be amongst the rabble, the mundane ‘little people.’ Why -”

His tirade was interrupted when Geralt grabbed the back of his head and pulled him toward him in a kiss that was so brutal it gave him whiplash. “Shut the fuck up,” he barked coarsely. “In case no one’s ever told you, you talk way too much.”

Jaskier whimpered and ran his tongue over his bruised lips. 

“Christ, Geralt. I was only mostly joking. Of course I don’t really think that you think that way! I’m the one who was the stepson of a Viscount. I never did go to Lettenhove - I don’t even know where the fuck that is, somewhere in Belgium or the Netherlands, maybe - but I know _I'm_ the one with the posh accent, the useless liberal arts education, etc., etc. Oh,” he said sheepishly. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? I’m talking too much…”

“No,” Geralt said softly. “I mean, yes, you do talk much more than others, and it does annoy me, but at the same time it’s a bit...endearing.” Geralt’s face reddened. He turned his attention back to Jaskier’s foot, examining with inordinate interest the slight inward curve of his middle toe. “Hmm. That’s interesting. How have I never noticed that before?”

“Geralt, as incredibly sexy as you are when you’re embarrassed, please don’t be. ‘Endearing,’ you say? That’s quite encouraging. Mind you, you’re not the first person to compliment me on my tendency to ramble. Or on the dainty turn of my toes, as it were. Now tell me, why’d you really take me to the pub?”

Geralt groaned and covered his face with the small throw pillow he’d bought in Chippenham yesterday on a whim. White cloth, with a red crossbar stitch pattern, it had reminded him of both England’s flag and the Mac Gerailt family coat of arms. Knowing how much it meant to him, while knowing he would never admit it, Jaskier gently pulled the pillow away from him to make him look him in the eye. “Tell me, Geralt. Please.”

“Hmm. Fine. I’ll tell you.” Geralt abruptly reached forward and pulled Jaskier against him in a firm embrace. “But I’ll tell you on my terms. I don’t quite know how to handle it when you look me in the eyes. Your sharp, soulful blue eyes. You see right through me, Jaskier. It unnerves me.”

Jaskier didn’t speak, but wrapped his left arm around Geralt’s neck to anchor and reassure him as he bared his soul.

“I took you to _The Flibbertigibbet_ because I thought it was safe. It was near enough that I thought it would be. I didn’t think that barkeep would recognize you. Even if she did, I hoped she wouldn’t rat you out to the damn paps. That’s what she must have done; her, or some other busybody in this backwards little hamlet.” 

Geralt took a deep breath and nuzzled Jaskier’s cheek before continuing.

“I thought you’d be a bit happier, if you could just go to a place that was at least somewhat similar to your usual venue. You have been so unhappy, even after Teddy called and got us this place. I was - I am - worried about you. You have been just as psychologically damaged by what happened to you a few weeks ago as you’ve been physically.”

Geralt cleared his throat, and Jaskier could hear that he was on the verge of tears.

“I know you hired me in the first place to protect you _physically_. And I’ll do that, Jaskier. By rights, I should break the leg off of our new chair, go outside, and tell all those bloody bastards to _**fuck right off**_. I should, and God knows I want to, but I won’t, if only because you wouldn’t want me to. It’s strange. In the past I never would have hesitated like I am now. I’ve something of a reputation, too, as a brute and barbarian, at least in some circles. But you make me want to change. You make me want to be a different person. A _better_ person.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Within the narrative frame of this story, Geralt and Jaskier have only been together for about two weeks, give or take. That is not, I think, quite enough time to establish them as a couple, per se, but they are definitely moving in that direction. 
> 
> I have a basic plot and endgame sketched out, but would be amenable to your suggestions and feedback to take into consideration. I consider all of you to be co-creators in spirit.
> 
> Again, I feel as though I should apologize for my persistent use of stereotypical British curse words. All my "bloodies," and "bastards," and especially my "bloody hells." Please remember that while I am very much an Anglophile, I am an American, so there are some cultural norms that I won't get correct.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading. 😘


	15. Lollipop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier talk a lot, and do other things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Suckin' too hard on your lollipop,_   
>  _oh, love's gonna get you down..._
> 
> -Mika

From the moment they realized that the press were basically camped out all around the old malthouse, Geralt and Jaskier hunkered down in their flat. 

They had bought enough food and drinks yesterday in Chippenham to last them at least a few days.

After spending nearly an hour banging on the front door, the paps finally got the message that Jaskier wasn't coming to the door. Not yet, at least. 

In the ensuing hours, having little to do besides eat, sleep, or watch telly, they spent a good deal of time talking about their future.

"I'll have to talk to them eventually. I can't hide out here with you forever, as tempting as that sounds." Jaskier grinned sleepily and curled up against Geralt's side. 

"I find it hard to believe anyone would ever go out of their way to avoid you. To not want to have anything to do with you. You're like a drug, Geralt."

"Hmm. That could just be the painkillers talking. It's good to know they work well." Geralt cupped the back of Jaskier's neck. "And as far as people not wanting to have anything to do with me, I could tell you a few stories."

"Could you?" Jaskier's eyes widened with interest. "Well, we'll certainly have the time for it. Unless you'd rather not dredge up the darker days of your sordid past."

"No, you're right about that. Suffice it to say there were a few women who broke my heart. Heck, the last one did her damage to me just a month and a half ago."

"You're kidding." Jaskier frowned and impulsively kissed Geralt's collarbone. "Do tell. Or sum up, if you'd prefer."

"I'll do that. She was a woman I met through work. Her name was Yennefer. I asked her to marry me. She called it off. The end." Geralt coughed and threw his arm across Jaskier's shoulder. "Now it's your turn. Tell me a bit more about Nika. How did you meet her?"

"I met her at the Cambridge Folk Festival last July. I was one of the opening sets, nothing big. But Nika, she acted like a devotee meeting their guru. She took a selfie with me, we exchanged addresses, and were pen pals right up until she asked me to come to Poland. Then, well, you know the rest."

Jaskier sighed sadly and looked down at his right arm and left leg in their thick plaster casts, and pulled up his shirt to stare at the colostomy bag hanging from his side, half-full with shit. He moaned and shook his head in disgust.

"I deserve this," he intoned quietly. "I do, Geralt," he said when the older man told him to "shut up."

"You don't deserve any of this, Jaskier. You loved Nika. Her husband treated her like garbage. You gave her happiness. You have brought happiness to so many people all over the world."

"But I've brought lots of sadness, too. I've lost count of how many women whose hearts I've broken, how many marriages I've ruined. Hell, if I hadn't had my balls snipped when I turned 18 I'd have left at least a dozen little bastards running rampant round Britain. Oh, don't look at me like that, I'm quite comfortable with the word. I'm one myself, you know."

"Nonsense. It shouldn't matter whether or not a person is born to parents who are married. It's just a bloody scrap of paper, innit? And some middle-aged windbag in a fancy dress and pointy hat stands up and says some things, and then gives you the paper. It's totally useless, except maybe to wipe your arse with if you use all the bog rolls."

"Good God, man, stop! You're going to make me piss myself. Are you quite sure you're a Catholic? I don't care how old I get, my mum would slap me silly if she heard me insult a priest like that. Or the Church."

Hmm, who cares? You have no mum anymore. According to her. My mum would come at me with her fists flying, too. One never insults the clergy, the institution of marriage, nor the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church around her."

Jaskier laughed and buried his face in Geralt's neck, smelling the crisp aroma of his clove cologne. 

"That part's true, I suppose. You want to know what's weird? All this talk of the Church and being slapped is kind of turning me on."

Geralt scoffed. "Oh no. Don't tell me, you were an altar boy, too?"

"Have you seen my winning smile and gorgeous locks? Of course I was. My mates and I hung around after mass and drank some of the leftover Eucharist wine. Then we'd pass a joint around if we had one, and jerk each other off. Good times, Geralt. Good times."

"Er." Geralt chuckled nervously and scratched the side of his head. "Is that your roundabout way of telling me you want a handjob?"

Jaskier gasped dramatically. "Why Geralt, I would never! But, since you brought it up…"

"Forget it, mate. These hands aren't touching you there until you've had a proper bath. Speaking of which."

Geralt picked Jaskier up and carried him into the small half-bath, sitting him onto the toilet seat. He gently removed the colostomy bag and emptied it into the loo. He filled a basin with isopropyl alcohol and put the bag inside to disinfect it.

That done, Geralt washed his hands and helped Jaskier remove his shirt and trousers. He wet a clean cloth and with a small cake of lavender soap he washed Jaskier from his neck to the little mound of hair right above his nether regions. He wrung the cloth out after every few strokes, re-wet it and began again.

Geralt smiled grimly as Jaskier moaned and grunted with every touch. When he lost control and came with a low sob, Geralt lowered his head.

"Now Jaskier, _**this**_ is what you deserve," he murmured as he opened his mouth wide.


	16. Oczy szeroko zamknięte [Eyes Wide Shut]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt uses his words again, and Jaskier uses some of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Uczę się ciebie na pamięć.../I learn you by heart...  
>  Rozpaczliwie na pamięć... /Desperately by heart...  
> Szeroko zamkniętymi oczami./With eyes wide open._
> 
> \- Łzy

_**“Proszę. Proszę nie. Przestań, przestań! Nie chciałem tego robić. Nie rób tego. Nie rób tego!”** _

Geralt woke to the sound of Jaskier’s screams. His muscles tensed, and his hands clenched into fists as he watched Jaskier writhe and whimper. His face was as pale as a boiled egg, beaded with sweat, his skin clammy and cool to the touch.

Geralt brushed his cheeks with his fingertips. “Jaskier. You’re having a nightmare, wake up!” 

He did not. If anything, he became more agitated, trembling and moaning in fear as his teeth chattered.

_**“P-rzepraszam, p-rzepraszam! N-nie zabijaj mnie! Chcę żyć, p-proszę...muszę żyć!”** _

He shrieked horribly, and then was absolutely still and silent. Geralt’s blood curdled. “Hey, Jaskier. Jaskier, wake up!” He slapped his cheeks once, twice, three times. 

When Jaskier remained immobile, Geralt held a hand under his nose. He wasn’t breathing. Fighting to keep calm, Geralt took a deep breath, tilted Jaskier’s head up, forced his mouth open, and kissed him, forcing air into his lungs as he vigorously pounded his chest, bruising his own knuckles. “C’mon, Jaskier. Breathe. Come back to me, Jaskier!”

He blew another gust of air into his lungs, then gave 100 compressions. He repeated the cycle four times, four interminable, agonizing minutes, until Jaskier wheezed and doubled over, clutching his chest, partially leaning painfully on his broken arm.

“G-Geralt…” he whispered harshly. “G-good God, what…?” He wheezed and spat a clump of blood onto the duvet. The sight of it threw Geralt. He stared, gobsmacked, at the bright red splotch soiling the otherwise colorless blanket.

“You were...having a bad dream again. Reliving the crash. You were screaming, pleading. It was horrific.” Geralt took Jaskier into his arms and buried his head in the curve of his shoulder.

“Ouch,” Jaskier muttered. He coughed again, and a small rivulet of blood dribbled down his chin. “Ugh, it hurts,” he moaned. “I think you broke some of my ribs.”

“Well, that’s far preferable to losing you. You gave me a fright, Jaskier. I thought I was going to have a heart attack.”

Jaskier chuckled. “I ‘gave you a fright.’ Honestly, I know I’ve asked you before mate, but who talks like that?” 

“I do,” Geralt rumbled. He ran his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, plastered to his skull. “Admit it, Buttercup, you like it.”  


“Right,” Jaskier stammered. “I suppose I do. I do like you, Geralt,” he said solemnly, “but in the future, as a small favor to me, please never call me that again. ‘Jaskier’ is fine, thanks. Or ‘Julian,’ if I’m really in trouble.”

“Hmm. Agreed.” Geralt leaned back and stared at Jaskier in rapturous relief. “Come here, you.” He pulled Jaskier forward, kissing him. 

“Mmm.” Jaskier moaned and broke away, his eyelashes fluttering rapidly.

“Don’t take that as any sort of comment. Frankly, kissing you is one of my new favorite things to do, but I don’t want you getting a mouthful of my blood.”

“Hmm. That hardly matters to me. I’ve had a few mouthfuls of your ** _cum_** , for God's sake. A little blood is nothing to fret about. Unless you have a disease, or some kind of weird vampire fetish I don’t know about.”

Jaskier tittered nervously, his cheeks tinged pink. “No, nothing like that. I thought you wouldn’t like the taste, that’s all. It’s all coppery and... _metallic_.”

“Yeah,” Geralt concurred. “And your spunk tastes salty, a bit like caviar. Not that I’ve had the chance to eat quite a lot of that.” 

He lay Jaskier back on the pillow and followed him, stopping mere inches above him. “I do hope I’ll get to indulge in the former a bit more often.”

“I, er…” Jaskier trembled and closed his eyes. “I don’t quite know how to answer that. What...what am I to you, Geralt?”

“What are you to me?” Geralt’s brow furrowed. “What a question.You’re my best mate, my confidant.Though we haven’t known each other very long, you know me better than most. You’re my partner, in every sense of the word. If the things I’ve said, and the things I’ve done, in the past few days haven’t proven it to you, if you haven’t figured it out yet -”

“Figured out what, Geralt?” Jaskier covered his eyes with his hand and peered at Geralt through the screen of his fingers.

“I love you, Jaskier.” Geralt's voice shook with emotion at the intensity of what he said, what he felt.

Underneath him, Jaskier began to tremble. He closed his fingers to obscure his eyes from view as he wept. 

"Really, Geralt?" he asked, his voice tremulous, unsure. "Do you really mean that?"

"I do," Geralt said gruffly. "And I've known for a little while. Ever since I saw you speaking with your brother on the phone the day you were discharged from the hospital. Maybe even before then."

"You've known that long? Geralt, why didn't you tell me?" He moved his hand and glowered at him sullenly.

"Jaskier, that was only a week ago. And I'm telling you now." 

He kissed Jaskier's pouting lips and closed his fingers on his uninjured arm. "Is there anything you want to say to me?"

"I l-love you, t-too." Jaskier clung to his neck, shaking. "Geralt."

"Hmm." Geralt turned his head aside and kissed his ear. "I love to hear you say my name. Do me a favor, and repeat what you just said, in Polish."

"OK... _też cię kocham_." Jaskier smiled and yawned sleepily. "What a night," he slurred. "I'd better go back to sleep if I'm going to get anything done tomorrow."

"No, I'm sorry. I'm afraid that's not going to happen. What is going to happen is that I'm going to phone 999 and get an ambulance to come take you to the hospital in Chippenham."

He smiled darkly. 

"Better I do that than try to drive you there in the Sapphire. If one of those media blokes were to try to interfere, I can't promise you I wouldn't kill them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Proszę. Proszę nie. Przestań, przestań! Nie chciałem tego robić. Nie rób tego. Nie rób tego!"  
> = "Please. Please, no. Stop, stop! I didn't mean to do it. Don't do this. Don't do this!"
> 
> "P-rzepraszam, p-rzepraszam! N-nie zabijaj mnie! Chcę żyć, p-proszę...muszę żyć!"  
> = "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Don't kill me! I want to live, please...I have to live!"


	17. The High & Low Roads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wheel of fortune rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Oh ye'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road..._
> 
> -"The Bonnie Banks o' Loch Lomond," traditional Scottish ballad

The Chippenham Community Hospital seemed a bit lackluster, according to Geralt’s standards. The two-story building made of gray stone made him think of a debtors’ prison or workhouse, specters of England’s past that were generally not spoken of or acknowledged. 

It was damnable, he thought, the way that poverty and need had been criminalized in the past, and how differently one was treated by others when knowledge of their poverty became known.

Upon admission, they were shown to a small room with a chipped linoleum floor and drab gray walls. The receptionist had handed Geralt a clipboard with forms to fill out, and a small Biro with blue ink. The first few questions were easy, biographical details known by any of Jaskier’s fans, or anyone with access to a computer.

_Name: Julian Alfred Pankratz_  
Date of birth: 1 January 1993  
Place of birth: Kraków, Poland 

Geralt frowned when he read the next question, and put the clipboard down under the chair - a cramped, black folding chair, not unlike the one he’d sat in at Newcastle - and shrugged. “Some partner I am. Some next of kin. I don’t even know your National Insurance Number. Do you even have private health insurance? I don’t know why you’d need to.”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t know…” Jaskier laughed giddily and playfully tugged the cord on his wrist that connected him to the bag of fluids and medicine being given to him intravenously. “Aw, Geralt! You called yourself my ‘partner.’ Does that mean we’re an item now?”

Geralt groaned and hid his face in his hands. “Sure. Whatever you want to call it.” He looked up at the sound of Jaskier’s abrupt sob, and immediately stood up and sat on the end of the bed. “Jaskier, wait. That’s not to suggest that I don’t care. It’s just that I’ve never been one for labels and the like. Labels are for containers of leftover food.”

Jaskier chuckled and flicked Geralt’s nose. 

“That is very true, I suppose. Although, when I stop to think about it, all these people who walk around saying they’re through with labels, they want nothing to do with them, that they’re their own, unique individuals...after a while, they all start to seem pretty boring, don’t they? Like, good for you, mate, you’re one-of-a-kind. But they need to get over themselves, Geralt. They really do.”

“Er, yeah. They do.” Geralt raised an inquisitive brow and pressed the back of his hand to Jaskier’s forehead. “You have a slight fever,” he noted. “If I weren’t afraid of making you pass out, I’d tell the nurse to up the dosage of your morphine.”

“Mm. Moooor-phiiiiine,” Jaskier drew out the word and laughed. 

“It’s good stuff, really good stuff. It’s just a hint of what I had back home, but man, it really helps. I don’t even feel the pain anymore. I feel like I’m floating at the ceiling above the bed, actually. Good God, Geralt, it’s actually a bit scary.” 

He clung to Geralt’s hand and rubbed circles into his palm with his thumb. 

“Your skin is so **_soft_** and **_beautiful_**. On your hand, anyway. The rest of you is kind of leathery and rough, like. All those scars you have, they’re like a map of where you’ve been. I can hardly wait ‘til I’m back in form, and can spend hours staring at and touching all your skin at my leisure. Imagine it, Geralt, we’ll spend **_hours_** in bed, talking and laughing and f - “

Jaskier was interrupted mid-sentence when the door was shoved open, and his mother stormed into the room, Teddy trailing after her and pleading with her to “calm down, Mum!”

“Calm down? You want me to calm down?” Julia snarled and frantically waved a faded, folded piece of paper wildly in her hands. “Tadeusz, he will not have it. I won’t let him take it from you!”

“But it’s not mine to take. I don’t want it, anyway, Mum. You’re being very unreasonable about all this.”

“What’s going on?” Jaskier frowned and looked at his brother quizzically. “What’s not yours, that I’m not taking away from you?”

“Widdershins,” Teddy said flatly. “The executor for Papa’s estate found a document that grants you the deed to the property. Papa signed and dated it.”

“Wait, Widdershins?” Geralt brow scrunched up in confusion. "What is that?"

Jaskier's jaw dropped open in surprise. "Widdershins is Peter's old hunting lodge in the Highlands. It was, anyway. He used to take me and Teddy there on holiday in the winter. I never was big on hunting, but he thought it made for some quality time, bonding. And now, apparently it's mine. Whoa."

Jaskier rubbed the side of his head to ward off the threat of a migraine as Julia kept screaming, her face reddening with rage as she shouted about suing, how it wasn't fair, how she wasn't going to stand by and let the rightful heir's claim be thwarted by Jaskier and his "latest plaything."

Teddy put a placating hand on her shoulder. 

"Mum, stop! It won't do you any bloody good to take Freddie to court. Besides, I don't want that old shack in the woods. He's welcome to it. And please stop slandering Freddie and Geralt. He may be dead to you, but he is still my brother and one of the dearest people in my life. And in case you've got the idea to shred or otherwise damage that excerpt of Papa's will, I've taken a photo on my mobile and emailed it to Geralt for safekeeping."

"You..." Julia instantly deflated, her energy sapped by her youngest son's defiance. "Fine, Tadeusz, whatever you say." 

She rolled her eyes and walked to the doorway. She looked back and scowled at Teddy as he leaned down to hug Jaskier.

"Let us go now, Tadeusz, before Julian takes it upon himself to call security to force us to leave."

Geralt grinned and stood up, crossing his arms. "Goodbye then, Mrs. Smytheton. Teddy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Widdershins", occasionally also spelled "withershins," is a Northern English/Scottish term that means 'counter-clockwise.'


	18. The Rockrose and The Thistle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bon Appétit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _All the pins inside your fretted head  
>  And your muttered whens and hows  
> All your mother's weaves and your father's threads  
> Let me rob them of you now._
> 
> \- The Amazing Devil

_Two months later..._

“Ah, Geralt. You’re back. Have a listen to this song I’m working on. And be honest, will you? I have a gig in Aberfeldy next week.”

Geralt looked up from the book he was reading and smiled indulgently. “Go on, then.”

“Right. Here goes.” Jaskier took a deep breath and for the next few minutes sang a mournful, hauntingly beautiful ballad. It was, like most hauntingly beautiful ballads, about two lovers in crisis. One was trying unsuccessfully to console the other, but -

_“I’ve run out of my words, my song  
Just let me die, me die…”_

Jaskier’s voice trailed off. He tucked his chin in his hand and looked at Geralt expectantly. “Well?”

“It’s...very moving. Somewhat melancholic. Tragic.” Geralt set the tome he’d been reading down on the coffee table and walked across the lounge. He took Jaskier’s hand in his and spread his fingers out.

“You’re biting your nails again. I wish you’d stop, but I know you won’t. I’ll try to quit hounding you about it. At least you finally had those bloody casts taken off.”

“And the colostomy bag. I was so relieved when they took that out I almost cried. As much as I’ve enjoyed having you care for me these past 10 weeks, I can’t lie to you and say that I’m not overjoyed by the prospect of being able to take a shit again in the bog.”

“Er, right. Just as I can’t lie to you and say I’m not happy by the same prospect.” Geralt abruptly unfastened the top two buttons of Jaskier’s flannel button down shirt. “Jaskier, you must be burning up! Summer’s a month away. Why are you wearing flannel, of all things?”

Jaskier giggled breathlessly when Geralt slipped a hand inside the gap and playfully tugged his nipple. “G-Geralt, what are you -”

“Clearly, you haven’t entirely got over the cold you swore you had. What’s it been, a week? It gave you a bit of a fever. It looks like maybe it’s worsened. You must have been delirious when you picked out this outfit. Let me help relieve you of it.”

He did, unbuttoning his shirt and jeans and folding them neatly on the back of the old-fashioned leather office chair. When Jaskier stood before him in his socks and boxers, Geralt paused and looked him up and down. Jaskier blushed under his gaze and looked at the floor.

“Hmm. You’re too skinny. You need to eat more, Jaskier. Didn’t you say Teddy was in town and meeting you at a pub?”

“Y-yeah, at Greyfriars in Perth. It takes about an hour to get there. I should leave now.”

“No,” Geralt murmured. “I’ll drop you off on my way to work. I’m doing a double shift on the docks. I’ll give you money for a cab on the way back. Say ‘hi’ to Teddy for me. And do eat some more. Hmm, speaking of eating…”

Jaskier was late meeting Teddy, and Geralt was late for work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all the readers for seeing this through to the end.


End file.
